The Diner
by Sanctuaria
Summary: "Just a cup of tea to start, thank you," replies the woman. "Earl Grey if you have it." The accent throws her for a second, English and authentic. Little did Angie know at that moment that the mysterious woman she'd just befriended was much more—much, much more—than she appeared. UPDATED FOR SEASON 2, spoilers for 2x01.
1. Part One

**Hi all! Agent Carter's premiere was amazing last night, so I thought I'd provide a minute contribution to the small but growing body of work that it's gotten in the 24 hours since it went on air. Enjoy!**

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**The Diner**

It's ten thirty, and she's about to be late for work. The lights of New York City have just faded into the backdrop of the great blue sky, no longer glowing on the buildings like little arranged stars but not so faded that they are lost between the pearly clouds and the bright sun reflecting off the wet cobblestones. Ahead of her, the street is bustling—men with suits and ties and briefcases, young women headed off to work carrying umbrellas they won't need without another storm cloud in the sky, school boys playing catch in the alleys with blackened hands from the damp pavement, and cars chugging their way forward on streets crowded with both pedestrian and vehicular traffic. She joins the flood hurrying across the street, stuffed white handbag weighing heavily on her left arm. Someone jostles her and she hears a, "Sorry, miss," but before she can even catch a glimpse of his face he's disappeared into the crowd again. She can't even hear the click-click of her inch-too-high heels on the pavement over the throng, although she's forcibly reminded of them as her right catches slightly in a sidewalk crack.

Despite the crowds, despite the congestion, despite the bits of trash in the street and the occasional stench from the sewers at night, she loves this city. She loves the liveliness, that there's never a dull moment to be had. She loves the buildings reaching high into the sky, the million different scents that fill her nose as she passes by the shops, the faint but unique blend of cigarette smoke, coffee beans, and car exhaust that seems to permeate everything. There's a clip-clopping sound passing by her, and she doesn't even need to look to know that there's a horse-drawn carriage gliding by, still a common sight on the streets and to her one of the most amazing representations of the fusion of the new and the old. Flags drape out of second-story windows in all of their red-white-and-blue splendor, fluttering triumphantly in the breeze as they have been since V-J Day. The Second World War has just ended, they have won, and New York is flourishing, well on its way to becoming the economic and cultural center of the Western world. And she's in the thick of it.

She spots her workplace up ahead, putting on an extra burst of speed. The bell jingles above her head as she pushes open the door. "Mr. McCloskey, I'm sorry I'm late," she says hurriedly. Her boss looks her up and down, impatience in his eyes.

"You'll have to stay a bit late today to make up for it, Angie," he tells her. He gestures to the back of the small diner, towards the bathroom. "You'd better get changed quickly and hurry out here, now."

"I will," Angie promises, hastening to do as he says. She enters the ladies' room through a swinging door and peers under the stalls to find an empty one. They all are.

She clicks the lock into position behind her and sets her handbag on the floor beside the toilet. Stripping down quickly, she replaces her high heels with a pair of shorter ones that will be more comfortable to be on her feet in and her knee-length red dress with her yellow-and-green waitress uniform. The dress, with its deeper neckline and shimmery fabric, glitters in the light as she folds it delicately into her bag on top of the heels. When Angie emerges from the stall, she heads directly to one of the sinks and stares into the mirror. She wipes her scarlet lipstick off with a disposable handkerchief and replaces it with one three shades less severe. Well aware of the imaginary ticking clock, she unclasps the silver necklace with faux pearls from her throat, dropping it and her hoop earrings into a small case. She ties her hair back slightly, fluffs it slightly from her walk, and dons the waitress cap, securing it with two pins.

"I liked you dressed better how you were before," one of the patrons at the booths jeers as she walks out of the bathroom and by his table, but she ignores him. She stuffs her bag into her cubby back near the kitchen and returns to the diner floor once again.

"Where were you, on Broadway, sweetheart? Did all that glitter and jazz make you forget how to pour coffee? 'Cause my cup's empty," another one says. She can't help but flush slightly.

"I'm sorry," she lies with false sweetness as she walks to his table with the coffee jug. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

The beady eyes staring out of his pudgy face rake her up and down. "Not unless you can come out here and dance for us in that dress." He guffaws with the first man, evidently very pleased with himself for that statement.

Angie stiffens, jaw locking. "Anything _off the menu_?"

He shakes his head, belly bouncing as he shares his mirth with his newfound friend. He drains his mug quickly and thankfully they leave together. Thank God they aren't regulars.

She buses his table, amusing herself by noting to herself the three pie plates and the many empty packets of sugar sitting next to his mug. She also notes the scant tip he left behind.

She _had_ been on Broadway, for the record, she thinks to herself. Auditioning for it, anyway. And even though her lucky break hadn't come today, she's sure it will soon. It is another thing she loves about New York—it's a city of limitless possibility, despite the couple of jerks living in its population.

She delivers a plate of pancakes that have just come off the griddle and then surveys the rest of the tables, making sure there isn't anyone else able to complain about an empty coffee mug.

The automat isn't very large, but it manages to fit a lot of booths without making anything feel crowded. On the walls are individual slots labeled with prices, housing for purchase pies, muffins, and the like. One end of the main counter is obscured by a stack of menus with items patrons can order fresh from the kitchen. The walls are painted a friendly yellow and green color scheme, matching her uniform exactly.

Currently seated in the left-most booth of the diner is a no-nonsense business man in a dark suit. Angie imagines that he's a partner at a large law firm in the city, and that he only comes to this place because of its proximity to his subway stop and perhaps the delicious pecan pie. She enjoys making up the stories behind her customers as she works, cutting away the boredom and monotony of her job. The regular at the next table over she fancies as a long-time New Yorker whose wife had fallen in love with the quaint little French bakery that the automat had taken over during the dark days of the depression. After she died he began to visit more often in order to feel a connection to her. He's a crotchety, white-haired man with a raspy voice and a trembling in his fingers, but he always has a smile for Angie when she comes around to refill his coffee and he never skimps on her tip.

A woman catches her eye. She's sitting alone, straight-backed, very properly, and she has one of their menus open in front of her. She has brown hair full of curls, and, in Angie's decidedly less-than-expert opinion, the legs of a Broadway star. She wears a black skirt and an impeccable white blouse with poise.

This isn't the first time she's seen this woman. She's here often, at least four times a week, but never this early. Usually by the time Angie's shift starts she's had her meal already and is reading the paper or staring out the window, across the street. She leaves soon after that. They've never spoken, and Angie has yet to create a story for her. Nothing seems to fit quite right.

"Can I get you something?" Angie asks, moving to stand at the edge of her table with notepad in hand.

"Just a cup of tea to start, thank you," replies the woman. "Earl Grey if you have it." The accent throws her for a second, English and authentic.

"Coming right up," Angie manages to respond. The woman who always sits alone has become even more mysterious with this turn of events. An English accent on a white-collar, working woman... One who, with her customary stares into the distance, Angie has always judged as having a slight melancholy air to her.

Back in the kitchen, she has to put a new pot on the stove, but she returns with the tea no more than a few minutes later and the woman thanks her graciously. She appears to be ready for breakfast, so Angie scribbles down her order. "You did look nice earlier, in that dress," the woman says, and Angie startles. "Despite what those men were saying. You were quite stunning."

"Thank you," she replies.

The woman smiles. "You've got a little smudge of lipstick, right there..." She demonstrates with her own finger. "Just a tad. There, you got it."

"Thanks," Angie says again. The woman's friendly if aloof demeanor keeps her from feeling embarrassed or uncomfortable.

The woman tilts her head slightly, as if listening to something, and then asks, "Might you turn that off please?"

It takes Angie a moment to identify what she's talking about. "Oh, the radio? Sure thing." She twists the knob and the over-enthusiastic voices of _The Captain America Adventure Program_ fade out of existence. "Did you lose someone in the war?" The question's out there before she thinks it through, and she can't take it back no matter how impulsive or prying it might sound.

Thankfully, the woman doesn't seem to mind. A slight smile returns to her lips. "How could you tell?"

"Well, you're the first person to ask to have that stupid radio show turned off since it started broadcasting a few weeks ago, and you come in here a lot by yourself," Angie answers honestly.

"I didn't realize I was that obvious. But yes, I lost someone, of a sort."

"That's rough," Angie says sympathetically. She glances around to see if the boss is anywhere in sight—he isn't, probably gone out for a smoke—and slips into the booth opposite the woman.

"I'm Peggy," the woman introduces herself. "I work at the New York Bell Company just down the street."

"Angie," she replies. "I work at the L&amp;L Automat."

"No, _really_," Peggy teases.

"But I'm not one for first names," Angie continues, "I prefer nicknames. How about…English? For your accent. It's beautiful."

"I suppose that'll do," Peggy smiles.

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Little did Angie Martinelli know at that moment that the mysterious woman she'd just befriended was much more—much, much more—than she could have ever imagined.

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**Hope you liked it! Feedback is much appreciated :)**


	2. Part Two

**I know this story was marked 'complete' but I felt the need to add this second piece to it both to celebrate Agent Carter season two and to lament Angie's not being in it so far. I miss her. A lot. So, here you are:**

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Ever since she'd arrived in this wonderful place, Angie has never given any thought to leaving the city. She loves the sights, the smells—the quiet serenity of the Brooklyn Bridge appearing out of a foggy morning and the sea green tint on the copper of Lady Liberty as she gazes unceasingly out to sea. But it isn't just the tourists traps that enthrall her, equally she loves the tiny bagel shop on 32nd that is nothing more than a doorway the width of the brim of Peggy's red hat and the French-style _Patisserie _that is large and spacious and always has the scent of fresh chocolate croissants wafting out of it.

But things change, the people she spends her time with change, and they change her as well. It's around eleven o'clock in the morning when the secretary of Turner &amp; Turner Broadway Productions comes rushing at her, carrying a telephone aloft with the wires stretched out behind her all the way back into her office. The other few girls in pin-stripe pink dresses who made it to final auditions pause their vocal exercises and watch unabashedly as the pudgy woman stops in front of Angie.

"Urgent telephone call for you, dear!" she announces, practically shoving the black-and-bronze contraption in her face.

Angie picks it up, glancing around the green-wallpapered waiting room with its polished wooden floors and shiny brass door handles. Definitely a step up from where her auditions used to take place a year ago. "Hello?"

"I'm your sister, and I've just called to inform you that our mother is in the hospital, gravely ill," English's signature accent comes through.

It takes Angie a second to orient herself, but there's a definite waver in her voice as she replies. "How long ago? Is she all right?" She adds a shocked look and a sniffle for good measure.

"Listen, I need to talk to you," Peggy says hurriedly. "Is it possible you could meet me at the diner in twenty minutes?"

"Of course, Peg, I'll be there as soon as I can," Angie says in a distraught voice. If the producers could see her now—no question they'd give her the part. "Just tell Mother not to head towards the light until I can get there!" Maybe that is overdoing it a little, but her rapt audience is lapping it up.

"Thank you," her friend says sincerely in her ear. Angie places the phone back on its holder amid stares and hushed whispers. Two of the other girls seem to be hiding smiles that she'll be leaving, increasing their chances. She ignores them, focused on the task ahead, and conjures up fake tears.

"May I go?" Angie asks the secretary, Ms. Marsh. "My momma's in the hospital, and the doctors don't know how long she'll last, and—"

"Go, don't worry about it, dear!" the woman exclaims. "We'll reschedule, no problem at all."

Angie smiles sadly and thanks her, seeing the two girls disappointed—and red-faced that Angie noticed their less-than-sympathetic attitudes—as she makes eye contact with them. She plays the part until she's out of the building and on the street. Luckily the offices of her newest potential production are not far from the diner, and she sets off at a brisk walk despite her heels, wondering what is so important that it can't wait until both of them get home at the end of the day to the large, luxurious residence they share courtesy of Mr. Stark. Given Peggy's profession, it could be anything, really. She just hopes she's not in trouble again—that no SSR agents are trying to arrest her again.

Angie walks faster, careful not to twist her ankle on an unexpected cobblestone, feeling the sun heat up the back of her neck normally covered by her hair. It's in an up-do today because she'd heard a rumor that these producers like girls best whose hair is up. It's all in appearances first, one thing she'd learned trying to get on Broadway. Only then do you get to display your talent and voice.

She makes it to the old diner just in time, sees across the street and a little ways down from it the New York Bell Co., where she knows Peggy secretly works. Most of the commute traffic has slowed for the lull period in the middle of the day, so it's mostly young women pushing strollers and chatting with each other that she's dodging around once she realizes Peggy's already there, seated in a booth by the window.

The L&amp;L Automat. The look of it hasn't changed much in the month and a half since she hung up her apron—hopefully for good—and focused the entirety of her attention on kickstarting her Broadway career. But she does notice with slight satisfaction the counters aren't as polished as when she worked here, and with definite dissatisfaction that some of the more nasty regulars are still occupying their favorite seats. They have a new waitress to heckle, a pretty petite thing even younger than Angie was when she first started. Angie resolves to leave her a large tip even if Peggy doesn't plan on them staying long enough to eat anything.

"Angie," Peggy greets her with a smile. She slides into the booth seat as the secret agent consults her watch. She has a cup of tea half-drunk in front of her, the scent of Earl Grey wafting off of the translucent brown liquid. "You made good time from Turner &amp; Turner."

"Good to see you too, English," Angie grins. "Considering I missed you this morning. You were gone before I even got up." It's so good to be seated in one of these pea green booths without having to look over her shoulder for the manager every half second.

"Ah, yes, sorry about that," Peggy apologizes, taking a sip of tea. "There was a mission of...interesting circumstances that needed attending to. But I think you'll be glad to know that Dottie is now out of our lives forever."

"You caught her?" Her eyebrows shot upwards. "English, that's amazing! I still can't believe she fooled all of us, including Miriam. She's such a good actress; _she_ should be on Broadway."

"I sincerely hope not," Peggy laughs, setting her beverage down. "Imagine trying to catch someone constantly in the spotlight with the press always on your tail. Not my cup of tea, thank you."

"So is that the big news, why you called me here?" Angie asks, still excited but brows furrowing. "'Cause it seems like the type of thing that could be celebrated tonight with a bottle of schnapps."

"I'm going to Los Angeles," Peggy says suddenly.

"That's amazing!" Angie bursts out. "I've always been fascinated by California, the dry heat and surfing and the obsession with floral shirts..." She catches Peggy's uncertain expression. "But of course you'll be working, so...maybe just surfing on weekends?" Her friend laughs but still appears worried, dampening Angie's spirits. "Is...is it dangerous? How long are you going to be gone?" Nearly all of the excitement has drained from Angie's voice as she asks, "You're coming back to New York, right?"

"I will," Peggy promises. "I just don't know when that will be. The man I worked with, the one with the war injury..."

"The one you're sweet on," Angie cuts in with a laugh.

Her friend gives her a scandalized look. "Angie!"

"Sorry," she says, not sorry at all. She's never sorry for breaking Peggy's stoic nature and causing a tiny bit of a blush to appear on her porcelain face. English can stand to loosen up a little. "So it could be a long time?"

"I'm not sure how long Daniel will want me in Los Angeles," Peggy tells her.

"Hey, if you move, I'll just move with you!" Angie chirps without even giving it a second thought. "Living with you, English, has been the best experience of my life." She pauses. "And not just for the luxury of having a phone in every room at Stark's house," she adds.

Peggy shakes her head. "Angie, you can't leave. You're so close to Broadway now."

"Well, Los Angeles is the home of Hollywood..." she grins.

"But you don't want to be trapped behind a camera; you've always said what you love about theatre was feeling the energy of the audience," Peggy says gently. "It means a lot to me that you would want to move across the country for me, but...your heart is here, in New York, Angie."

She sighs. "I know. But I'll miss you while you're gone."

"I'll miss you too," Peggy smiles.

"When are you leaving?" Angie asks.

"As soon as I pack a bag," she replies. "I wanted to tell you first." Peggy stands from the table and Angie nearly bowls her over with a giant bear hug. "Good luck with your auditions, Angie."

"Good luck with your case," she tells her, strands of the brunette's immaculately curled hair tickling her nose. "And with _Daniel_."

Peggy rolls her eyes as she pulls away. "Goodbye, Angie," she says, walking towards the door.

"See you soon." Angie prefers that to goodbye. "And send me a postcard!" she calls after her. She places the large tip she promised under Peggy's half-finished mug, then takes one last look around the diner.

"Hey, didn't you use to work here, sweetheart?" one of the men squints at her, midway through shoveling a plateful of eggs into his overly large mouth. With a jolt she recognizes him as the man who called her out before about her dress, the first day she met Peggy Carter—how does she even remember him still?

Nevertheless, she does. "Yes, but not anymore." Another thought occurs to her. Angie smiles widely. "I'm on Broadway now." The man chokes on his scrambled while Angie turns on her heel and walks toward the door, pushing it open and letting herself out into the sunlight. It's a lie, sort of—but soon, it won't be. She sees through the window that he's still staring at her, staring at her with a little bit of awe and a lot of respect. Exactly what the producers of Turner &amp; Turner will be looking at her with after the audition. And if they don't, well… It's New York; there's always another company who'll recognize her talents.

She knows her value.

It's something English taught her.

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**Hope you liked it! A lot of you probably needed an Angie-fix as much as I did, so I hope this helped. I'll leave this story marked complete like last time, but I'm not ruling out another one of these come season three ;)**


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